


Cooperstown, New Hampshire

by DixieDale



Series: The U.N.C.L.E. Agent's Cautionary Guide To Travel [7]
Category: Girl From U.N.C.L.E., The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (TV)
Genre: Nightlight Recommended, Supernatural element
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-24
Updated: 2019-05-24
Packaged: 2020-03-13 15:48:40
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,389
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18944071
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DixieDale/pseuds/DixieDale
Summary: Cooperstown - So named for its long reputation of once having some of the finest coopers in the country.  A cooper, of course, was someone who built barrels, tubs, casks, water troughs, and other staved containers.  An innocent enough occupation, though one not so much in demand anymore perhaps, when there were other materials less unwieldly than wooden staves and metal hoops to use for such purposes.  Now the agents from UNCLE find out the container might be innocent, being merely an object.  That which lies within, the one who decides what is to be contained within, ah, that is a different story.





	Cooperstown, New Hampshire

**Author's Note:**

> Note: Angelique's mother makes a cameo appearance, and for those who also read my stories from the Garrison's Gorillas fandom, you may recognize her. After all, Gigi played a strong role in the story 'More Than Enough Mayhem To Go Around'. Obviously the apple didn't fall very far from the tree.

Travel Guide Entry:

Cooperstown, New Hampshire, U.S.A.  
≠ NO!!  
§ Bad, Really Bad!!  
£ Unfriendly Supernatural(?) Presence

It couldn't get much plainer than that. 

The notes were equally clear, at least to the desirability of taking a leisurely stroll through the area. Clear as a bell: "Access Forbidden, radioactive, no entry for any reason, even with hazard equipment. Any activity seen in the fenced perimeter to be reported immediately, observed from a safe distance, until a fire strike can be called. No contact is to be made, under any circumstances."

And for some bizarre reason, this entry followed:  
'And, lo, it was written: This was not the Beginning. This was the beginning of the Knowing. That is a different thing altogether. Only history will tell whether it was also the beginning of the Ending. If there is anyone left to write, to record the history. After all, it is said that history is written by the winners, and victory is not certain. We do not know if victory is even possible.'

It seemed like a quote, but if it was, it was not attributed to anyone. And those who read the entry paused, and read it again, and wondered. And when the Guide was reprinted, and some overly-busy person in Editing decided to remove that entry note, it appeared in the new edition anyway. And so it would be, again and again, for as long as the Guide remained.

 

The Story:

Mark Slate and April Dancer didn't know why Illya and Napoleon had asked for them to be sent as backup; Waverly had left suddenly for parts unknown for some top-secret emergency meeting, and their briefing had been almost non-existent delivered as the older man hastened out the door.

"They're picking up a historical journal from Gideon Cooper, a descendant of the one who penned it; for some reason, they think they need your assistance. Go, do whatever is needed, and do TRY not to make a mess of things, Mr. Slate." The elevator door closed on those last words, preventing any comment from either Mark Slate or April Dancer. They satisfied themselves with a resigned shake of their heads before heading back to the office they shared. The Old Man was getting more irrascible every day, it seemed. "Or maybe only where I'm concerned, April," Mark admitted ruefully. "Sometimes I wonder."

Contact with the two senior agents had been limited to a fast, almost inaudible transmission. In fact, it was so bad that if the conversation hasn't started, "Mark, it's Napoleon", they wouldn't have been sure who was on the other end. 

The voice continued, "were you briefed? Yes, well, I think you'd better get here as fast as you can. Charter a small plane, fly in to Hooksett Airport, rent a car there. Don't ask for us when you get here. Check in at The Lamplighter Inn and we'll be in contact. And, April? Leave that charm bracelet of yours at home this trip." 

That last was enough to make the hair on Mark's neck shiver; that bracelet of April's had the uncanny ability to glow and tinkle at the oddest times, which could sometimes be merely awkward, and sometimes more. In any case, it never seemed to glow unless there was something of the supernatural, or at least the eerie in the vicinity. 

Mark really disliked that bracelet, if only for that fact, since it was attractive enough otherwise. "Guilt by association, I know," he'd admitted rather sheepishly, though April just teased him with a "look at it as an early warning system, darling." 

Oh, he'd laughed it off in the beginning, until he'd taken her on a tour of the 'hotspots' of England. No, not the places to dance all night, but those reputed to be haunted in some way or another. He hadn't really wanted to, but she was eager, so he'd given in (though making up his mind to avoid the few places he felt truly WERE dangerous in that way, keeping to the more touristy spots). 

He'd started out alright, especially when the bracelet had just sat there, looking pretty, the first four stops. When the Tower had it chiming like tiny bells were attached (which there weren't), and then glowing, he'd looked at her suspiciously and asked, "how are you managing that, luv?" Stops six and seven were silent, stop number eight had the thing glowing like a night light.

He'd chided his partner even more sharply with a "this really isn't the place for games, April; stop the nonsense and stop making it do all these tricks!" Then, he'd flicked it sharply, then exclaimed, pulling his fingers back and licked the tips, trying to ease the biting burn he'd gotten from where he'd touched the bracelet. 

Somehow, he lost his enthusiasm for criticism after that, and ever since, he and the bracelet had declared an uneasy truce - he didn't express open skepticism, it didn't bite him if he touched it either on purpose or accidentally. It seemed a fair exchange.

For Napoleon to even mention it now, much less tell her not to bring it with her, especially since he'd always laughed at Mark's description, that was strange.

 

Back at her apartment when she'd been putting a bag together, she'd somewhat reluctantly taken the bracelet off, put in her jewelry box. It felt wrong, leaving it behind, and she knew Cousin Caeide would likely scold if she knew, but Napoleon was the senior agent, and if he thought it was important, perhaps it was. She hurried down to Mark who was waiting in the car, her bare arm tingling. She hesitated, uneasy, looked back up at her window, but an impatient toot of the car's horn sent her on her way quickly. She tossed her case in the rear and got in. The uneasy feeling quickly left, and she settled in to discuss what little they knew about the assignment with her partner.

 

"It seems like such a quiet little place," April had remarked, leaning her head back against the headrest and looking out the side window with every indication of pleasure. There was just something so welcoming, so soothing about this place, especially after the bumpy flight and the long drive. It made her feel utterly contented, happy to just sit back and let the spring sunshine warm her face. 

Cooperstown, New Hampshire. Population less than two thousand, at least according to the signs they'd passed not too far back. Winner of several awards, mostly connected with superlatives containing the words 'most' or 'best'. 'Most charming', 'most authentic', 'most imaginative', 'best smothered chicken', 'best small brewery', and so on. 

She'd even mentioned it to Mark, "I never realized before that there were so many awards of that nature." She realized she must have caught him thinking about something else, for he just gave her an odd look, puzzled even. Well, surely he'd seen the signs; there must have been nine or ten of them on the outskirts of the town.

There were salt-box houses sitting far back on their lots, lining the road, although only when the road curved and you could view things from an angle could you see the original cat-slide roofs leading from the front two-story structure to the far closer-to-the-ground rear lean-to section, perhaps no more than six or eight feet tall. 

Folklore had it that the popularity of the somewhat odd architectural style had risen during the time of Queen Anne, when houses were taxed based on the number of stories, and that in order to avoid the additional taxation, the rear half of the house was built at one story or even less, countering the two stories in front. Similar, perhaps, to the supposed custom of taxing based on the number of closets, resulting in dwellings that simply HAD no such things, though there were some historians that disputed that as well. Others had it that that there was a much more practical, down to earth (no pun intended) reason for the architectural oddity of the salt-box style - that as families outgrew the original space, the owners didn't want the outlay of building on the equivilent of an entire new house, especially for children. That they felt the lean-to structure to the rear, joined by that long sloping roof, would suffice quite well, and in most cases it did. If it had also helped against taxes, well, New Englanders were practical people and would hardly think that a drawback, but in truth, many of the saltbox houses predated Queen Anne by some goodly number of years.

Here and there low stone walls, barely two feet high in many cases, divided property from property, occasionally outlining raised flower beds as well. It was spring, and there were flowers aplenty; nothing so exuberant as there would be when spring moved into summer, but the grass was sweetly green, the trees showing a willowy green froth, and the daffodils alone were making a grand show. Some of the clumps were huge, looking as though they might be as old as the houses. It was such a pleasant place; it hardly seemed possible Napoleon and Illya could have run into any trouble here. April Dancer was sure they'd find it had all been a wild goose chase, and determined to just enjoy the pleasant break it gave her and her partner.

"Quiet, yes. But there's something, well, off, about the whole place, wouldn't you say, April? Unsettling, to my mind," her partner, Mark Slate replied, casting an uneasy eye over the worn clapboards facing those stark old houses. Those windows, too many for his taste, too tall for their narrow width, seemed like rows of vacant eye sockets staring mindlessly down at them. The water streaks under them looked like nothing so much as tears dripping down the worn and hopeless face of someone who'd suffered untold tragedy. It reminded him uneasily of places in London where you didn't go, not because of the threat from the living, though that existed rightly enough, but by things even more dangerous, things that could tear a man's mind and soul apart. He never had understood the fashion of many tourists for seeking out such places, rather like they were managed exhibits, always under an attendant's control. He shuddered, and brought his gaze back to the houses that, despite their distance from the road, seemed to him as if they were looming over them as they passed through.

"I will say that local fashion of painting the doors that deep shade of red is very offputting," he said. "It almost looks like a blood-stained mouth, waiting to devour any one who gets too close."

He wanted to laugh at himself, at the sheer fancifulness of that description, but this place gave him a serious case of the creeps. 

He knew that, to his mind, those flowers seemed quite out of place, so cheerful and innocent; they didn't quite seem real, certainly not appropriate.

{"Like a bouquet of fresh pink rosebuds and daisies and white spirea at the bridal feast scene in Great Expectations. Life juxtaposed against death, with a particulary gruesome effect. And the stone walls are one thing, but those odd long rectangular stone enclosures? If they are intended for flower beds, they're missing the mark. Look like stone coffins that have been cast up from the ground, their inhabitants wandering off somewhere and the coffins left open to the sky while awaiting the wanderers' return."}

"I wonder why they don't paint the houses? All that grey is a bit dreary, don't you think? Surely it can't be good for the stability of the structures, letting them go like that; imagine the rot and mold settles in rather quickly," he asked. "Some of those rear sections look like they might tumble down at any time."

She gave him an odd look. "Dreary, darling? New England colors aren't particularly bright, I'll admit. But I find the cream and sage green and the salmon rather attractive; and even the grey has a fresh, clean appeal. And they all look like they've been painted quite recently, and seem in quite good repair. And the only red door I've seen was on that pale blue house and I thought it a very nice accent."

He shot her a fast incredulous look, then took another look at the dull worn clapboards, grey and sagging as only time and lack of care could bring to a building. "Either your eyesight is going, luv, or mine is. Other than those rather terrifying red doors, I haven't seen anything but grey. Rather like a three day old corpse. And the smell? We aren't close to the ocean, but surely the air reeks of dead fish, or maybe a large aquarium or fish pond allowed to go sour."

She shuddered at that description, and took another look at the houses, now sliding into shadow with the coming of nightfall. Now that he had mentioned it, the colors were draining away quickly, but surely that was just a factor of the declining sun. Then again, Mark sometimes had flashes of insight that surprised her. 

She decided she wouldn't be quite so fast to let the apparent charm of this village sway her objectivity. She wondered how her bracelet would be reacting, if she'd worn it. Now she regretted listening to Napoleon; it would have been rather comforting to have that 'early warning system' attached securely about her wrist. Suddenly the town didn't seem nearly so welcoming. 

"We'd best find The Lamplighter Inn and register. I wonder what they needed our help for? What little we were told didn't seem all that ominous; just retrieval of an historical journal? It hardly seems the thing that would need four UNCLE agents, especially with no hint of Thrush involvement."

"Don't know, luv. Certainly didn't sound like anything that would give Napoleon and Illya any trouble. Alright, we turn here, and ah, yes, there it is. Well, at least it looks a little more inviting than what else I've seen." 

The Lamplighter Inn did look relatively inviting, if rather out of place in this vintage New England town. It looked like a miniature Southern mansion from the front, though the rear of the building was obscured by a tall vine covered iron fence. There WAS a big double gate there, to the left, and a gravel drive leading up to it, though the parking for the Inn was off to the right side of the building. She could see a sign on that gate, but couldn't read it in the approaching darkness. It appeared, though, that the Inn might take up only part of the building, but April decided that probably made perfect sense. She didn't suppose there would be many visitors; the town wasn't on any main thoroughfare, and getting there had taken a great deal of map reading and circling around.

It was probably best for her peace of mind that she hadn't been able to read that sign to the rear. Mark wasn't sure when or how he was going to enlighten her, possibly after he'd had a stiff drink. 

{"The Lamplighter Mortuary and Funeral Home; you'd think they'd at least have a different name!"} 

Knowing the inn where they'd be staying shared space with the local mortuary just was not a reassuring thought. He hoped there were no connecting doors; that would just be too discomfiting a thought.

The inn was larger than it appeared from the outside, at least according to the satin-finished brochure handed them by the smiling desk clerk. At least it was large enough to host a conference room, two dining rooms, and, by the looks of the cubbyholes behind the desk, a good thirty or more guest rooms. 

'Wayne', as his gold name plate introduced him, gave them their keys, "adjoining rooms, just as requested, sir, m'am, well, at least the sitting room opens onto both bedrooms. We understand from your uncle that the young lady requires someone near at all times, due to a recent illness. If there is anything we can do to assist, our local doctor is really quite good. We've put him on alert that his services might be required. Luckily his offices are quite close."

Mark refrained from asking him just how close. That mortuary sign really HAD left him uneasy. It reminded him of all those signs on the outskirts of town, the ones that had puzzled him to begin with, then even more so when April had made that odd comment about 'awards'. 

He thought of some of those now as he picked up their cases and followed April to their room. {"'The Lamplighter - peaceful rest for a night or longer.' 'Cooperstown - the town you'll never want to leave'. 'A unique experience you'll find nowhere else'. 'Cooperstown - travelers welcome. Visit, renew yourself, and leave a new man'. 

There's a certain ambiguity to all those, AND the rest, that just didnt't sit well with the agent, especially with the uneasy feeling he'd been getting. The only two that seemed aboveboard and didn't call to mind more than one meaning were the ones about the town's historical call to fame - 'Cooperstown - legendary makers of the finest of barrels, kegs, tubs and other specialty containers', and 'Specializing in matching the right container for every purpose'. That those might be the most ominous of all, well, that wouldn't occur to him until later.

There was a small bar in the corner of the sitting room joining the two bedrooms, and he'd headed for it as soon as he put their suitcases on the bed. When he got there, though, had even lifted the top from the decanter probably containing whiskey from the color, he hesitated, then firmly put it back in place. No, he didn't think he'd be eating or drinking anything here, not til they talked to the other two UNCLE agents. He snorted to himself as he remembered the story of Persephone. {"No, don't fancy us being trapped in Hell forever just because I wanted a stiff drink,"} even at the time realizing what a totally odd thought that had been. 

April had watched in concern. Mark didn't usually make the whiskey bottle his first stop, though he was certainly not adverse to taking a nip now and again. But NOT usually on a job, and NOT when they should be expecting the two senior UNCLE agents at any time.

But he'd moved away from the bar, was now inspecting the room, then moved to the bedrooms, looking them over very well too. She noticed he'd paid particular attention to some of the paintings on the wall; she followed suit and found it made her uncomfortable to be faced with so many portraits, some human, some animal, but all with eyes that seemed far too alert, too full of some hint of desperation to be in a painting. That last one, in particular, of a woman standing in a huge cavern beside a dark pool, shadows engulfing the background, it seemed to draw her in, mesmerize her with its sad gaze, remind her of things that made her want to weep. {"She seems so helpless, so lost."}

April was startled when Mark spoke, shaking her from her reverie. 

"Come along, luv. I want a shower and you promised you'd scrub my back if I got us here before midnight."

"Ah, well, I suppose a promise is a promise," she'd responded. She'd done no such thing, not to her recollection, at least not on this trip, though it had happened in the past. She'd scrubbed his back, he'd massaged her aching feet; they'd brought each other bandages, and tea and aspirin and whiskey as the occasion demanded. They'd delivered comfort and support to each other in any number of ways. 

And while she'd never known Mark to turn down a good back scrubbing, or back scratching, or even a comforting back rub, all that being a friendly yet not overly intimate sharing of affection, running water did, of course, provide an excellent sound barrier, and since they couldn't go for a walk without having talked to Napoleon or Illya, a bathroom with a running shower would be an ideal place for sharing of whatever information Mark had. The ruse of her washing his back gave a reason for her being in there too, if anyone was listening, though perhaps bringing up questions about the obvious ease between the two of them. Whatever it was, whatever he wanted to discuss, it seemed to make him unusually alert and tense, obvious to HER, no matter the show of nonchalance he'd put on for the desk clerk.

She smiled, remembering that discussion she'd had with Napoleon Solo in her earliest months as an agent, about what being partners really meant. More importantly, about what being GOOD partners really meant. Well, she and Mark had reached that level, though always improving; they had a mutual respect and trust and affection and commonality of mind that few would ever know. For not the first time, she regretted that she hadn't found anyone on a more personal level that she liked nearly so well as her partner. {"That doesn't bode well for my chances of someday marrying and having a family. I really don't think I could settle for something much LESS than what we have, my partner and I, even if there is no sexual intimacy involved between Mark and myself."}

When she opened her travel case, there it was, the charm bracelet. She'd stared at it, then sighed, undid the cuff of her top and slid it over her wrist. {"If it's decided it has to come along, it's probably best I wear it. Cousin Caeide would give me a good scold otherwise; would anyway for leaving it at home. As she said in her note when she sent it to me, 'having a weapon is of little use if you're in one place and it's in another, April!'"}. 

She decided, however, not to mention the bracelet, either that she was wearing it, or that it had seemingly decided to come along on its own volition, to Mark unless it really became necessary. He was already on edge enough, had been even before they'd reached their destination.

 

The awaited meeting didn't happen. Oh, not because Mark and April took that long walk they'd both been hankering after, but because Napoleon Solo and Illya Kuryakin never arrived at their room. April had suggested they have a late dinner, but Mark had demurred. 

"Don't think we'd best be eating anything around here, April."

"Well, I'll admit what you told me of the other part of the Lamplighter does tend to put a damper on the appetite, perhaps there is someplace else close?"

"Think we should just stick to those travel rations we have tucked away," though grimacing at the thought of those compressed bars they carried. The taste was mostly of dried straw, to his mind, but they were supposedly loaded with nutrition, enough to carry them over for a few days.

She'd wrinkled up her nose, but sighed, "as you say, partner mine. Now, what do we do about our missing boys? Do we let them come toddling home whenever they choose, or do we act the fretting nanny and go searching for them."

"Let's wait for a bit, til the lights start going out. I'll make a sortee downstairs, just a walk through, see if there's a notions shop or something of the sort, just to get a feel. Stay here, keep the door bolted; I shan't be long."

She'd rolled her eyes at him, but complied. Well, it wasn't as if he always took the lead that way; they pretty well swapped things around and it probably was his turn. Yes, as she remembered it, the last such scouting expedition had been in Bombay and she was the one slipping around dark hallways for that one. She'd returned to find him flirting with the young woman assigned to turn down the beds, and had teased him that the pretty little thing seemed to have been willing to provide even more personalized service than that. He'd grinned sheepishly, "she's a nice girl, April, just wanted to chat a bit, practice her English, you know; headed for university next term," and although he really seemed to believe that, April had SEEN that pout 'Lan' had given her as the maid scurried out the door. When April saw her in the hallway the day they were leaving, Lan had bid them farewell, in clear, sweet, Oxfordian English, and April had teased a blushing Mark about that for days, about being such a good teacher.

Now, it had taken longer than she liked, him exploring The Lamplighter's dark hallways, but Mark returned, sat at the small desk to quickly sketch out the layout, as much of it as he'd been able to discover. 

"Managed to get 'lost' once, and ended up at the kitchen and storeroom before I got put right by the night desk clerk, but the place is too small for that excuse to work more than once. Just lucky that the hallway from the loo really IS easy to mistake, and someone from the city just MIGHT assume the gift shop would be open this late. Now, see, these doorways look like they could lead to the back, but there's always ways to hide what they wouldn't want to be seen. What say, April luv, ready for a walk in the wild wood?"

She nodded, feeling her charm bracelet warm around her wrist. {"It's metal, I think bronze, yet it's always warm, never cold. That is, when it's not turning hot."}. Somehow, having it with her made her feel just a little bit better about this excursion they were on. 

"Off we go. I just hope we find Napoleon and Illya somewhere watching a rabbit hole."

"Yes, rather than being trapped in a badger den. I know, I agree," Mark said, and turning off the light, they slipped into the silent, darkened hallway.

 

But it WAS a badger den, at least for Napoleon. They'd found him, tightly bound, in a small cell that looked like it had seen plenty of previous activity. It actually wasn't all that uncomfortable, single bed, overhead light encased in a heavy metal grill, small sink and toilet, but with no window, the bars on the door and the latch only on the outside, there was no question of its intent - the one inside was supposed to REMAIN inside. 

A small tinkering of the latch, an uncommon one, and finally the door swung open, and a frustrated Napoleon Solo surged forth, nodding his grim thanks.

"Illya?" Mark asked.

Solo shook his head, "I don't know. They separated us as soon as they caught us in that room at the back. Illya was sure the answers to some of what's been going on are in that room, and he's probably right. Odd symbols everywhere, what looked like books on a wall shelf, but ones we either couldn't get the straps to open, or the few that weren't bound with straps, it was like hieroglyphics or something similar. Illya said he's never seen anything like it, and you know him; if it has to do with books and languages, I thought he'd seen it all."

"Now? We look for Illya or the room?" April was torn. On a personal level, she wanted to find the other agent, quickly, before he could come to harm; on the other hand, that room sounded like it might hold the secrets they just might need in order to get out of this place alive.

"And the journal? The one you were sent for," came from Mark, only to get a grim, "our contact was dead when we got here. He had gone through a lot before he died; whether he gave them the journal, I don't know. We don't even know what was in it to make it so important; all he'd told UNCLE was something about riders and containers, but he managed to convince the Old Man to send us to meet him. Seems he'd met Waverly before, during the War; the two liked each other, and this Gideon Cooper was talking about 'the end of the world as we know it', and Waverly decided to send us to pick up this journal he'd found, written by his grandfather. And here we are, in The Lamplighter Inn - all the comforts of home, if you're Boris Karloff."

On that grim note, they started out to find their missing friend, the secret room, and hopefully the journal. Along with, of course, a way safely out of this place. April was aware of the bracelet heating up; she decided against bringing it to their attention, but did issue a firm, "careful, gentlemen. I have a very bad feeling about this," getting an incredulous look. 

{"Yes, well, tell us something we don't already know!"} was obviously a thought Mark and Napoleon shared equally.

 

"It's like an aquarium," April whispered, wrinkling her nose at the powerful stench, looking at the walls sheathed in glass, or something similar. Beyond those walls, a thick clear viscuous liquid held dark shapes, moving, ever moving. At first she thought they were fish, but then the shapes started to make more sense, and she realized they had tentacles instead of fins. "Octopus? Maybe squid? Why would anyone . . . ". She stopped when one of the creatures moved closer to the barrier and stared at them. Not a squid. Not an octopus, either, but something similar in shape. Except for the double-domed head, and those steady, staring eyes. Those far too intelligent eyes. That beaked mouth that opened and uttered sounds - words? - that rippled through the room like a slithering snake. 

Doors opened in two of the walls behind them, and similar creatures stood there, poised on three tentacles, others waiting with weapons or nets. Seeing that one encased in liquid had been one thing; seeing these, able to manouevre seeming just fine outside that liquid was more than a little disconcerting.

They backed up, together, dart guns at the ready, not being inclined to trust in the good nature of the beings they now faced. {"After all, we technically are trespassing,"} Napoleon considered, his mind now slipping off the edge of the world, clinging desperately to some thread of logical thought.

"Out!" Mark rasped, tossing a small smoke grenade, deciding escape was the better part of virtue at the moment, and not being all that confident in sleep darts against this unknown adversary. Besides, he'd seen the occupant, no, occupants, of that tank starting to climb over the barrier, and that would leave them massively outnumbered. No one argued with him, and they dashed for the door they'd come through and were gone.

 

"You never mentioned those, Napoleon," April said somewhat reproachfully when they stopped to get their breath and their bearings. "You might have, you know, if those are like the ones who captured you and Illya. It would have been good to know."

"Yes, and be assured I would have, but they weren't. The men who caught us had two legs and two arms each, and while the cologne was a bit strong, it didn't reek of slime." 

They were lucky, very lucky, to find the right room down the right hallway. Illya Kuryakin was even luckier; their timing was all that saved him from drowsily watching the majority of his blood flow down those channels in the table he was laying on. The one who'd started the 'transfer process' had explained it all to him, once he'd realized Kuryakin had the scientific background to understand at least part of it. 'Ylhes', as it appeared the scientist thought of himself, though that small name plate was more of the strange glyphs, unintelligible to the Russian, seemed glad to be able to expound, to 'talk shop', as it were.

Now, Illya faintly explained to his partner, along with Mark and April, as Mark hurriedly helped April suture the small draining wounds closed. The Russian gratefully refused the Englishman's proferred offer of his shirt, explaining there was spare clothing in the drawers to the side of the room. Not his, unfortunately, but at least adequate covering and shoes besides. 

As Mark helped him dress, he went on. "They drain enough blood, and when it's just enough to start the body dying, they replace it with that," nodding to a tank of gel. "Then, when the bodily fluids reaches the right level, they make an incision in the abdomen and insert," and he gulped, feeling nauseous, and nodded to a small aquarium sitting at the head of the table. The sole content of the glass container was a miniature version of the much larger occupants of the larger enclosure.

"They insert that and connect it in some way. It's one of their young, treated with chemicals so that their bodies never grow much, though their minds will develop to a level of any normal adult of their kind. He said it didn't distort the 'container' much, just created what he laughingly said he had heard was called a 'pot belly'. He called it the 'rider', me the 'container'. They obviously have a sense of humor; aside from that bit of whimsy, he spoke of this as being the logical place for them to have settled, what with Cooperstown being known for matching the right container with the right contents. That it was indeed a matching process, that not every 'container' and every 'rider' were compatible. Napoleon, can we get out of here? The journal, it's in the top drawer over there. Let's retrieve it and make haste. It is unfortunate that they removed all of my clothing and 'accessories'; if ever a place could use a good firebomb, it's this one." He was shivering now, from cold, from reaction, from blood loss.

April cleared her throat, "well, maybe Mark and I can be of assistance? We do like to be prepared, you know." In stripping herself of the various little surprises she'd secreted around her person, she heard the tinkling of the bracelet, as if in approval. She winced a little at the evergrowing heat emanating from it. She lifted her eyes to see all three men looking at the bracelet, though their expressions were not easy to read. 

She flushed, "yes, Napoleon, I know you said not to bring it, but . . ."

He frowned, "what do you mean, I told you not to bring it?"

She and Mark looked at each other. "You know, when you and I spoke, when you asked for us to come, provide backup," Mark offered, wondering if Napoleon had had one too many shocks to his system.

The long level look exchanged between Solo and Kuryakin was then turned to Dancer and Slate. "Mark, we never asked for backup. We never had the chance; by the time we knew we needed it, it was too late. We were both in custody, our communicators take away. Not that I'm not glad to see you, of course, but we certainly were not expecting you."

There was silence, then a brisk, "yes, well, moving right along. What now?" April asked. Time enough to ponder over that later, when they were someplace warm and safe, preferably with a drink in their hands.

"Now, we use those little explosives you so wisely brought and do as much damage to this place as we can." Luckily those little devices came with significant delay capability, as it might take them some time to find their way out.

 

The discovery of the cubbyholes in the 'rear' of the Inn, so similar to those behind the check-in desk of the Inn proper, gave them some idea of the scope of The Lamplighters' activities, these holding some relic of those who had checked into THIS section, and checked out either not at all, or at least not alone. A photo album of those, possibly, who had walked away. And everywhere they looked, four symbols repeated, repeated, each time on a field of red. Illya strugged to grasp the meaning, but finally had to admit it was beyond him, even if he had been at full capacity. 

"We simply do not have enough knowledge of how the creatures think to know what those mean. It is unfortunate; perhaps knowing that would give us some clue as to how to prevail. However, I have seen nothing that could be our Rosetta Stone, do you?"

One thing was for sure, UNCLE was going to have quite a time trying to sort out all those photographs, track down the individuals, come up with some way of determining just who resided within; the original owner, or perhaps something quite different. 

It was going well, they'd thought, and then it all went to pieces. Coming around the corner that should have led them to the outside, they were confronted and separated, and while Mark, supporting the faltering Kuryakin was forced to flee in one direction, Napoleon and April each ending up on their own. They fled, trying to circle back and locate the others. It wasn't quite as easy as it sounded, of course. Few things ever are.

 

The cavern looked very much like the one in the picture in April's room; she though wryly that she probably looked a lot like that lost woman who'd mesmerized her so. {"Especially since that looks like the same dark pool,"} she shuddered, looking down at the body of water at her feet. She had to find her way out, though she didn't remember how she'd gotten here in the first place. Still, Mark was out there, along with Illya and Napoleon, and she had to find all three of them. 

Slowly turning around, trying to weigh her options, her gaze was transfixed by the massive stone carving in the corner. It didn't look anything like the tentacled creatures at the Inn, true, but it didn't look like anything very familiar, either. At least, not as a whole, though various parts did resemble creatures that had names she could assign. {"Wolf, otter, leopard, anyway. More, certainly."}. Her bracelet jingled softly, warmer now, but not hot, not like it had been around the others. Not warning her away, just urging caution

Somehow, it just wasn't all that surprising when the figure spoke to her.

When it had spoke, asked questions, offered a very tentative encouragement, she'd listened, and something inside her responded, and she began to talk to it, one sentient being to another.

Napoleon had protested. Funny, she didn't even remember him being there with her. It had been just her, wandering this cavern, looking for a way out, a way to find her partner, find Napoleon and Illya. Now the senior agent was here, and kept interrupting her conversation, and she was starting to find it annoying.

"How can you even imagine trusting that THING? Look at it!! Do you really think it's any better than those things back in that aquarium, back at the Inn?" Napoleon had sounded shocked, disgusted.

"You can't make generalities like that, not safely, you know. That Something looks different and sounds different than you, yes, but sometimes that which seems quite different in those superficial ways is far more like you in many ways than the man you saw sitting next to you on the train, Napoleon. I had a very wise member of my family once tell me that you gather allies based on shared values, not on shared looks. We know what values the creatures at the inn claim, at least to some extent. I think it would be wise to find out what ones THIS one ascribes to."

"Your," and there was a pause, "your family?" There was some hesitation over that word, as if it were unfamiliar, though that made no sense. "They told you that?" the voice urged her to answer.

She thought that was still Napoleon asking, though the darkness of the cavern and the ringing in her ears kept her from knowing for sure, and it didn't quite sound like his voice, yet not so much like the voice the stone figure had used before.

She was sitting now, on the cold damp stone floor, and Mark was with her. Well, physically, anyway. He had stumbled into the cavern only minutes before, collapsed beside her, unconscious, bleeding from a wound to the side of his head, probably a broken arm, perhaps more. 

She had pulled him to her carefully, resting his head and shoulders in her lap, and leaned back against the cold stone behind her. Perhaps she should have been busy tending to his hurts, but the conversation she was having was too absorbing. Still, one hand gently smoothed Mark's hair, while the other rested on his shoulder. 

Somehow, she was content enough, to sit there, her partner beside her, having this odd conversation with either Napoleon, or that stone figure in the corner. She didn't know for sure, but decided to at least respond as if it was Napoleon. After all, he would have his feelings hurt if it WAS him and she just ignored him. She'd noticed that he seemed to get his feelings hurt much more easily than you would have expected for a man with his level of sophistication.

She shuddered. "You mean my father? Heaven forbid! My father is the arch conservative, Napoleon, you know that. He considers as equals only those who come from the same blood lines, same social stratum, same education, same ancestory. And THEN only if he agrees with their every opinion, or rather, if they agree with every one of his, for his are the CORRECT ones, of course. No, I'm speaking of a cousin, rather far removed, but she reminds me of what little I can remember of my mother." She frowned into the darkness, and her voice became younger, more vulnerable. "I miss her, you know. My mother, I mean, though my cousin as well, of course. So much wisdom, so much caring." 

She remembered she hadn't talked to Caeide in several months, and she regretted that. {"When I get back, yes. I'd forgotten how much I miss talking with her, how she can help me make sense out of things that at first seem to have no rhyme or reason to them."}

"I would have liked to have met them, your mother, your cousin. They sound most interesting. Tell me more," and she did, sitting there with Mark's head in her lap, her wondering if her partner would ever reawaken, and if he did, would his mind have survived. And she talked, and the listener listened and learned, and so did the hours pass. For some reason it never even occurred to her that she was sharing things she'd never shared before, things Caeide might not be all that happy at her sharing now. It just seemed right that this one should be here, listening, and she should be here, talking.

The Ancient One who thought of itself as 'Akiel Matuk', as that was what the earliest ones who'd roamed this territory had called it when they met, absorbed all it could, and when the small one had talked its throat dry, it took pity and let it sleep. It had not known whether to take a part in this battle; after all, IT would survive long after both sides had long perished. At least, it seemed likely. It had been here long before either had appeared, after all. All it had to do was to retire to the other side of its domain, some goodly distance away, and wait.

Now it considered what it had heard; not shared values, no. But perhaps a hint of a similarity. Certainly more than it shared with the many-tentacled ones who had, without even asking permission, made themselves at home here in this tiny corner of its domain. Would it take sides? Perhaps not. But, perhaps, just perhaps, it would provide some assistance to the small one who had been so generous with her thoughts, her words. Perhaps it would aid her and her companions to gather what they sought and depart safely. After that, well, time would tell, whether it would be needful to take a stand or just let them have their great battle. Perhaps it was time to begin anew, anyway. {"We will see. There is no hurry, and I wish time to think over all I have learned. Perhaps the small one will be willing to talk to me again after she leaves here. She was most interesting, after all."}. Akiel Matuk noted with great interest the bracelet on the small one's wrist, the figures, the symbols there, and smiled. {"Yes, I think that would work quite well."}

And April slept, til Mark shook her shoulder gently. He looked himself again, even if rather bloodstained, and favoring one arm heavily.

"April, luv? Come on now, we've got to get going. Things to do, partners to find, a world to save, all that, you know. And maybe we can stop for elevenses after it's all done. I'm more than a little tired of those ration bars, you know!"

She'd thought to ask where Napoleon had gone, but hesitated, not knowing for sure if the senior agent had ever been there in the first place. But she did ask, only to get a shrug, "wasn't here when I got here, luv, not that I saw."

***  
But Napoleon hadn't been the one questioning her; he hadn't been near her for quite some time. He'd found her there, staring at that statue, but hadn't stayed. In fact, he'd not even been in the cavern for almost an hour before April started talking. He'd certainly not been there when Mark had stumbled into the cavern and collapsed at April's feet.

He'd arrived, greatly relieved to see at least one of his missing compatriots, started to speak but then hesitated, when his attention had been caught by a flickering form in the dim light, a form he recognized. A familiar whisper summoned him, and as always, when she summoned, he followed. He'd often wondered why that was; it happened even when it made no sense, but still, there it was.

"Angelique?! What are you doing here?" he strode quickly to her side.

"Probably the same thing you are, my dearest Napoleon. It seems this town gobbled up two of our agents, and when it spit them out, they just weren't quite the same. I'm sure you know what I mean." Even with such words, her accent was delectable, and sent a frisson of sexual excitement through his veins.

"And Thrush wants, what? To stop whoever 'changed' them?" he asked suspiciously. He wasn't really surprised at the warm chuckle he got, nor her reply, not with her hand stroking up his arm, feathering over his shoulder.

"Of course, darling, but only after we discover HOW they managed it. Think how very useful that could be to us. Well, to Thrush anyway. I imagine the idea would make you too very uncomfortable. But perhaps not your Mr. Waverley and the others in charge at UNCLE. After all, I imagine YOUR people would find it quite useful as well. If we work together, we can find out, we could each take the answer back home and get the praise and rewards. As you say, a win-win."

He looked at her, frowned, "and you'd let me walk away with the formula, or process, or whatever the hell it is? Just like that? You don't think your masters would object?"

"But of course not. You see, they know that while THEY are busy putting it all into practice, using it to full advantage, YOUR side will be having meetings, calling for studies into the ethics of using the process, and under what circumstances. Why, it could take months, even years, and by then, it really will not be an issue, will it? By then, Thrush will have its own 'container' in every vital seat of government, every place of power. No, they will not object to us joining forces to escape this place, Napoleon. And, in the meantime, perhaps, enjoying a little reward of our own? Since that annoying partner of yours, and those other two UNCLE agents aren't here at the moment?"

He pulled back, protested. "Illya was injured, badly; Mark was hurt, though I don't know how badly. April and I have to find them, help them."

Angelique pouted prettily, "later, Napoleon darling, later, surely. Come, I have recently come to know of this amusing little way to capture your attention. Come, let me show you. You can go back and find your tiresome friends later; for now . . ." and she leaned in to whisper of an erotic delight he had never before experienced, and he felt the temptation. Just as he always felt the temptation when Angelique whispered in his ear.

It was only then that Napoleon realized she'd been leading him away from the cavern all the time she was talking, leading him away from April. In fact, somehow, they were back in the hallway where their bedrooms had been. He shook himself briskly. He had to get back, find April, and the two of them had to continue the search for their partners. What the hell was he doing messing around with Angelique?

{"How many times have I asked myself THAT question over the years??!"}

Now, he looked at Angelique and suddenly wondered, {"does she have one of those creatures inside her? Or has she always been this ruthless?"}. Illya had often spoke of her as a viper, a scorpion or a spider. Perhaps she was something more, something worse.

He got an icy feeling. {"I wonder if SHE was one of the two agents who visited earlier, and left, 'not quite the same'. And just how long ago was that?"} The thought that it might have been even before he'd met her, or even just before their last bedding, was an appalling one, and he swallowed hard to keep from throwing up.

Thrush and these creatures; cold threatened to overcome him as he had the illuminating thought, {"talk about a match made in heaven!"}. He pulled away, and stumbled off, before his resolve could disappear.

He'd met up with Mark and April in the hallways, more by accident than anything else, and together they'd searched til they found Illya, slumped in a corner in one of the rooms. Napoleon found it extremely disquieting that it was the bracelet, the tinkling, louder, softer, stopping, acting almost as a homing beacon, that finally led them to his partner. No, he still hated the damned thing, but couldn't discount it did have its advantages, though April warned them that she didn't control it, only accepted what it offered.

Together they hurried to a side door, then, thankfully, there was open sky above them, and they made their way as fast as they could, considering two of them were in less than perfect condition.

***  
They were being chased, they knew that even though they'd not gotten a clear look at their pursuers yet. Crashing in the brush, heavy panting, a baying that sounded like it came from a hell-hound, the occasional glow of yellow eyes in the darkness kept them pushing on. The stench of decaying sealife permeated the crackling air. They'd used the explosive packs back at the inn, heard the explosion, but had the feeling they had not accomplished their goal - the utter destruction of that outpost of unholy melding of man and not-man.

"Come on! Just a little farther to the outskirts!" Napoleon panted. He was taking the lead, Mark following, supporting a faltering Illya. April was playing rear guard, and was torn between wanting to see what she was guarding against and dreading that very sight.

Her bracelet was glowing and the tinkling of little bells had given way to a loud ringing, a clarion call to battle. Somehow, when their pursuers broke free from the woodlands to surge into the clear, she knew she would have been better off NOT seeing, but was given no choice in the matter. Tall men, glowing eyes fixed on the four fleeing agents, each man holding a long leash at the end of which was what might have been a dog. If a dog had six legs, rather than the more usual four. If a dog had huge eyes glowing red above a squat muzzle more like a bear than a canine. If a dog had ever had teeth quite that long, dripping with green slime, or a long thin tongue like a snake's darting out to taste their scent on the air.

Her soft cry of alarm caused the men to pause, turn, then break into a final surge of speed they would have thought beyond them. There was no way they were going to escape; they each knew it now, but each was determined to go until there was nowhere else to go, no time left to get there.

The bracelet's ringing had turned into a shattering sound, and April had screamed something, words she didn't know the meaning of, in a language she had never heard before, and the air shimmered with ozone and power and thunder. Lightning appeared out of nowhere, striking again and again and again in the area between the pursued and the pursuers, leaving a jagged gap the full width of the meadow.

"Go," April had shrieked, and they did, running for their lives, their very souls, while those caught on the other side of that chasm screamed their rage to the skies. Every time the men and dogs would try to circle around, more lightning rained down, and not all of it hit bare earth, as evidenced by the vile odor, a combination of burnt flesh and fish.

***  
It had taken every bit of persuasion from Napoleon to convince Mr. Waverly of the grim reality of it all. In the end, Waverly himself had shown up in a helicopter to get their report, and looking at the small town below, looking again at these four agents, he had to decide whether to believe them and take dire action, or have all four of them committed. Perhaps it was the stench of fish, or perhaps squid, that convinced him. Perhaps it was when Illya showed him the wounds he'd taken when they were preparing him for 'transfer'. The bundle of relics Mark had carried out, the photographs, that surely had some impact, as did a fast skimming of the journal, telling of the advent of the creatures and the slow, almost unnoticed taking over of the town of Cooperstown. In the end, a decision was made, not an easy one, but one they didn't turn away from.

 

***  
They'd watched from afar, seeing the planes coming low, dropping their payload, saw the ominous clouds arise. To see that here, in this country, that was something they'd hoped never to have to see.

But as awful, as appalling as that sight had been, what was more appalling was what came after. For when the aerial photographs arrived at UNCLE Headquarters New York, they'd gathered around that big round briefing table, looking at what Waverly handed them. 

"But these are the way it looked before. Where are the ones that show how successful the bombing raids were?" Napoleon had asked.

The disquieting grey color of their boss hadn't improved, and suddenly they found themselves taking on that same hue as he told them the terrifying truth.

"Those ARE the photographs of after the bombs hit. It would appear they made no impact whatsoever. None whatsoever."

 

For now, the warning would be sent out to anyone and everyone who might be impacted. Along, of course, with the entry into the Guide. Even Waverly didn't protest, though he did think it unnecessary, since surely no one would ever get past all of the new safeguards put into place. Still, it could surely do no harm . . . 

***  
It was a grim thought, that they might never know how many had passed through that place, which had been taken over, scattered now across the globe, which had been used for fodder. And no one knew how long the hosts could survive while carrying their burden, or if those they carried could reach out and find a new host when the old one perished. There was considerable discussion as to whether the hosts could actually be considered still alive, or if they were truly just 'containers', There was just too much that wasn't known, but what was known, that had been enough for the order for that small contained firestorm that was to have had leveled Cooperstown, New Hampshire. 

That aeriel photographs, taken before and after that supposedly devastating attack, showed no discernable difference, that was what caused the trucks to move in with the fences and the watch towers and guards and guard dogs and all else. 

And if Mark and Illya sometimes awoke in a cold sweat, visions of large dogs with glowing eyes, being held on a long leash by men with eyes just as soul-shattering, bearing that odd symbol that had appeared everywhere in those rooms to the back of the inn, in all the pictures in those albums, perhaps it was just their memories of that place. Unless it was a foretelling of what was to come. Only time would tell.

And as April remarked, "the smart thing for them to do, of course, is to make that symbol a common sight, something that won't look too out of place. Probably change those four little squid-like squiggles to four letters with some supposed esoteric significance. They could market it as a fashion statement or trademark or something like that. Even a political slogan. It could become something no one would question, not even if the heads of state should start wearing it openly." 

Napoleon shuddered, "don't say that too loud, April. Can you imagine? We'd never be able to tell, not till it was too late." 

But he could imagine it, could even envision it, thousands of red pins, badges, hats. {"They'd want to pick something that would have a wide appeal, not just to the set that might go with what April called a fashion statement or a trademark. So, at least here in the States, something more 'wholesome' and 'appealing to the average patriotic citizen' sort of thing, rather than the interlocking initials of Chanel or Gucci or Louis Vuitton, designed more for the 'upper classes'. Maybe they could use 'A F F E' - 'America, Freedom, Forever, Eternal'. Or maybe even better, 'M A P F'. 'Mom, Apple Pie, and the Flag'. After all, who could ever object to that??! Anyone who tried, who doubted on some instinctive level, would be shouted down furiously. It could become quite the rallying point even. The tradesman, the business man, the teacher, the minister. The much-vaunted 'everyman', and 'everywoman', too. And in amongst them, the ones for whom those letters meant something else, stood for something else. And we would never know, not until it was too late. Until . . . "}

He stopped, shook himself briskly, "no, would never happen!" 

"Napoleon, did you say something?" 

"No, just . . . No, nothing at all. Just a goose walked over my grave. Let's go get a drink, maybe dinner. Then maybe cards at my place. I don't really feel like being alone tonight."

And no one argued; they really didn't look forward to spending the night alone either. 

 

Personal Epilogues - April Dancer

One thing April knew for sure, she was NOT going to mention that new charm that had appeared on her bracelet while she had been in the caverns, supposedly while having that discussion with Napoleon. Not to Mark or Illya, or Napoleon, certainly. A tiny figure, one she just couldn't quite figure out what it was, though it bore a resemblance to a leopard, but at another angle, there was a trace of a wolf, and at yet another, well, she just didn't know. She knew the words imprinted on the slender base were ones she'd not seen before, 'Akiel Matuk', nor had any idea of the meaning of. Someday she was going to do some serious research in that direction. Someday, when the nightmares faded away. 

In the meantime, she had put in a call to Cousin Caeide explaining the matter, asking for a contact with someone who was an expert on . . . What? 'Alien' life forms? Forms of life with chameleon talents? Who or what 'Akiel Matuk' was and was it safe to leave that tiny charm on her bracelet? Just what on earth had happened to her out there? In the end, she'd just told all she could remembered, and waited patiently for her cousin to make some sense of it.

Caeide had listened, and assured April that the lightning strikes had come from one of the original charms. 

"Look for the one of the young warrior clasping a lightning bolt; his name is Lugh, and his talent was storm magic. As with all the charms, the 'owners' gift as they choose, so continue to place your reliance on yourself and your partner, of course, April, as you always have done, not on any help from beyond. However, an unexpected gift now and again can come in handy, and when it arrives, just say a proper 'thank you' and go on." As for the last charm? She would be contacted, but Caeide thought if the charm was dangerous, at least to April, the others would have taken action, indeed prevented it from attaching itself in the first place.

Now, she was to meet another Cousin, no, actually three of them, six days from now. Perhaps she would learn more then. One thing April knew, she wouldn't be sleeping well til then. Maybe not after, either, but definitely not til then. 

Though the invitation from her partner to stay with him for awhile had been a welcome one. "A good time to have your place painted, don't you think? You were talking about having that done. Can't have you breathing in all those fumes. Or if you prefer, we can have MY place painted and I'll stay with you."

Well, that invitation was offered with an easy smile, and she had accepted it with alacrity. And why not? It WAS good timing, and Mark was always good company. And while she waited for Mark to pack a bag, since she really wanted her own bed, her own deep bath, her own dressing table, she wasn't about to turn down his companionship. And, looking around, she decided his place COULD use a good coat of paint. They could arrange that tomorrow. 

{"Besides, he just might be in the mood for a little congenial company as well. Far be it from me to disappoint my partner."}

 

Personal Epilogues - Angelique, at a discreet little luncheon with her mother, Gigi Aubuchon (aka Giselle Bize, aka Michelle Flauneau, and a myriad of other names). 

"Well, ma mere, I must say it was annoying to have those UNCLE agents interfere with my obtaining the secret to that process. Though, as I glibly explained to my 'superiors' (in their dreams, stupid men!!), the process required both alien mental and genetic manipulation of the subject before the new 'rider' (that's what those creatures called the one inside, you know) could 'attach' and not be spontaneously rejected, causing death to both 'rider' and 'container. Unfortunately not something we could adapt to our own purposes. Well, no, I have no idea if that is really the case; how would I? But I had to tell the fools SOMETHING, didn't I? In the end, they seemed satisfied to know that UNCLE didn't get any farther along than we did."

"But YOU are not satisfied, ma fille. I can tell," Gigi said knowingly.

"Well, no. Meeting Napoleon in Paris last weekend, that was a little disquieting. That annoying partner of his was obviously stalking Madame Roshen, Napoleon acting as backup. It would have been Napoleon, of course, charming her rather than stalking her, except that Madame is well past what the English call 'a woman of a certain age'; he'd not be likely to waste his time, withered crow that she is, and admittedly the Russian is very good at charming older women when he makes the effort. Though I'm not quite sure how he manages it, the annoying little man!"

"My assignment was to keep the Russian from making any headway; my self-appointed task was to see he, oh, what is the term, 'got his lumps?', in the process. He keeps interfering, you see. He interferes in my job, which yes, I admit is HIS job. But he also interferes in my playtime with Napoleon. And he is dangerous. There is such a steely resolution there in his eyes when he looks at me; there is deep emotion hidden there, and although I have speculated on just what that might be on many occasions, I have never decided on the truth of it. Is it mere professional antagonism, UNCLE agent vs Thrush agent? Perhaps a professional offense at my luring his partner from the assignment for little interludes of passion? Perhaps a resentment that he seems to bear the brunt of Napoleon's inattention to the job? Well, I admit I DO try to make sure he bears the brunt! You can not say I do not give it my best shot! Yet, there is something more, enough to make me wonder just how close the two of them really are!"

"That term, my dear Angelique, it is so amusing, no? 'A woman of a certain age'. The meaning for the English is so very, very different different than the French meaning. But the English, they have never totally understood sensuality, not the way the French always have. They obviously heard it as it was applied to a mature, knowing woman, and being unable (or perhaps unwilling) to accept the reality of the situation, placed their own misguided interpretation on it. 'Femmes d'une certaine age' - ah, no, you are not one yet, but wouldn't it be amusing to become one? The English, or at least the Americans, use such unattractive terms to mean the same thing; surely initiating a much younger man into the mysteries of the sexual arts is an admirable endeavor. Yes, I can see you in that role, easily; perhaps when the others start to bore you. 

"As I fear Napoleon will start to bore me now. He has changed since I saw him last. Perhaps there was something about our last encounter in that little town with those creatures? I do not recall anything that might account for the change, but I do know I was unable to tempt him away from his 'duty' there, which was most unusual, considering the little erotic tidbit I offered should have had him quivering with need. He is so predictable, truly always has been. Not untalented, of course, otherwise I would not seek him out, but predictable."

Gigi cocked a questioning brow. Angelique thought for a moment, and then tried to explain.

"I've never seen quite that look in dear Napoleon's eyes before, when I offered him that new enticement. Oh, the incipient lust was there, certainly. Poor dear is so easy to lead, always has been; just attach an erotic suggestion to his member, tug gently, and he will follow you anywhere. Well, ME, anyway. But not that time. One last look of perhaps bewilderment, perhaps a most un-Napoleon look of distrust, even disgust, and he was gone. Most annoying."

A look of worry crossed Gigi's face, and Angelique hastened to reassure the woman who had taught her all she knew.

"No, of course, I didn't intend to waste precious time catering to his erotic fantasies. You taught me much better than that! All of grandmere's secret potions and formulas; all so very useful! But that little gift under my fingernail would have left him peacefully sleeping while I got the jump on him as regards to my assignment. He would have awoken, hopefully with me naked beside him, reassuring him of all the joys we had shared, just like so many times before. As long as I made sure to deliver enough marks, just the right residual pain, he has always been easy to mislead. A great many of the erotic episodes he remembers existed primarily in his own mind; there were a few I encouraged him to believe that I am not absolutely certain are even possible! Though there were some where I indulged myself; as you always say, one does owe oneself a little treat once in awhile, as long as it doesn't become such a habit as to interfere with business. I must say, I really did not appreciate his lack of cooperation in Cooperstown. It quite made me pout, you know, for almost a whole minute, maybe two! But then I remembered what you told me about pouting causing wrinkles, and I stopped, of course."

"And here, in Paris, when I saw him in the Avenue Du Champs? There was a decided lack of interest, and he didn't even let me get near enough to whisper any enticements! It is enough to make me wonder if those creatures did not succeed with him, all unawares."

"Now wouldn't that be interesting, ma mere? One of THEM, as a senior Section II agent, the one most often mentioned as being the Heir Apparent to Waverly. I wonder if I should mention that possibility to Reynolds? No, the fool would just try to be clever, and between you and me, he just hasn't the talent. I can't imagine why they promoted him instead of me. No, I will wait and watch."

"And perhaps that is not it, but if not, I cannot imagine any reason for him avoiding me. Well, unless that partner of his has found a way to influence him, perhaps decided to fulfill a few of those fantasies himself. Hmmmm, I DO just have to wonder about those two."

"But in any case, I should pursue other possibilities in the arena. Not Kuryakin, surely. He would slit my throat without a second thought, much as I would his. It is in more than our hair colour, our eye colour that we are alike, after all."

Gigi considered, "no, not Kuryakin, of course. But the other man who was with them? Perhaps he would be suitable?"

"Mark Slate, the Englishman? Appealing, yes, and there were those delicious rumors about him and Theodora O'Hare. Well, more than rumors, according to her; heaven knows she is quite demanding, and she certainly had nothing ill to say about him! Still, I have a feeling HIS partner would slit my throat just as easily as Kuryakin if she thought I intended that young man any harm, perhaps even any special attention whatsoever. Theodora said she was receiving the most fierce glares from the young woman the last time they came face to face, never mind the first (and second and third) time she found them enchambered together!"

"Such a contradition, Miss Dancer. Quite efficient, very cool and collected, quite intelligent, yet with an inner fire that catches your attention in spite of yourself. Yes, a woman perhaps coming close to matching my own intelligence?"

"Perhaps she is a possiblity, Angelique? A change from your usual, and matching wits with someone not so easily swayed, that should sharpen your skills," Gigi offered.

"Hmmmmm, now there is a thought. I have not enjoyed a redhead in quite some time, and there is certainly no lack of appeal. Certainly something well worth considering. I will be unable to use the same tactics as on dear Napoleon, I do not see her as being in the least gullible, as you say, but I really do believe I was becoming rather bored with him. Yes, Miss Dancer might be just what I am looking for. We shall see."

 

Personal Epilogues - Napoleon Solo

Questions, oh so many questions. He was used to being left with questions after an assignment, as often as not. But this one was rather staggering in the number that flooded his mind. Oh, the overall questions of what now, how do we fight them, how do we find any that are already among us? He left that to the higher-ups, at least for now, until they directed him to battle. No, his questions were more on the personal scale, and there were two main ones.

Angelique - was she, wasn't she? Did the budding repellence he was feeling now indicate that she was, indeed, one of the Other? Or did he finally get too deep a look into their relationship, what she offered him, what he so eagerly reached out for, enough he could no longer overlook the implications? 

That bracelet of April's - was it a blessing or curse, or just a jangly ornament everyone was giving far too much attention and credit to?

He hated that damned thing, always had. Oh, not so much from Mark's outlandish descriptions; no, he'd heard enough tall tales from the Englishman not to put much credence in that nonsense. 

It was more his memory of that job they'd worked together in Madrid, when Mark had been assigned to backup, along with Illya, and he and April had been the sophisticated socialites swanning their way through the local elite. 

Angelique had been there as well. He'd drifted away, answering that beckoning look from the Frenchwoman, returned hours later, just in time to receive the hard glares and bitter accusations from Mark Slate as April's partner put cold compresses on the young woman's bruises. Oh, he'd been quick to put Mark in his place, quick to give apologies to April, lay out all his charm for her, but then his fingers had brushed that bracelet, and it was as if he'd been stung by a wasp, several wasps. 

And that wasn't the worst of it, not by far. No, the burning lingered, and gradually moved from his hand up his arm, eventually to his throat, making him think uneasily of anaphylactic shock, then to his mind, making his head buzz and itch on the inside. 

Later that same night, trying to sleep, the images of all he and Angelique had done returned, as well as what he had left April, his temporary partner, open to because of Angelique. And not just then, not just April, but other partners, especially Illya, throughout his history with the Thrush agent, those memories had flooded his mind and at once nauseated and humiliated him. 

And what was as disturbing, if not more so, the images seemed superimposed, one on top of the other, as if one or the other wasn't real, and he found his heart thundering as he realized he had no idea which was which, or how to figure it out. 

And the images of Angelique, those were equally as disturbing. Again, one image superimposed on top of another on top of another. Beautiful seductive blonde woman - hissing cobra with raised hood - a dancing statue of Kali, with bleeding heads suspended around her neck - an immense black and gold spider with slime dripping from its mandibles - a rotting animated corpse, dancing in a tattered shroud, grinning with what was left of her face after the worms and insects had finished with her. And all had had Angelique's lovely blue eyes.

He'd spent most of that night in the bathroom, heaving out his guts. It had taken a little doing, passing all that off as a mild case of food poisoning, since none of the others had gotten sick though they'd all eaten from the same take out containers, but he'd managed.

It hadn't stuck, though, and soon he was once again slipping away to meet her when she crooked her finger, or whispered into the telephone. This time, though, after that episode in Cooperstown, this time he thought it might just have a lasting effect. Whether that was good or bad, he'd decide later, feeling his dinner starting to surge upwards.

Now, he realized he was in for another night of the same, barely making it to the bathroom in time. Illya had stayed the night, and when Napoleon staggered back to his bedroom, he found the Russian standing in the doorway from the living room, where he'd been stretched out on the couch.

"Another case of food poisoning, Napoleon?" and the look was far too knowing for comfort. 

He managed a weak smile, "I think maybe something similar. Do you think I could be becoming allergic to Angelique?"

A quick look of relief, plus a few other emotions flickered over Kuryakin's face. "One can only hope. Can you sleep now?"

Napoleon had hesitated, "probably. But that couch can't be all that comfortable. Why not share the bed? It's not like we haven't done that hundreds of time on the job. We'd probably both sleep better."

Illya had looked at him, read the residual fear inside him, and nodded, "yes, that might be a good idea. We will need to be well-rested tomorrow, after all."

 

Personal Epilogues - Mark Slate

It purred at me. 

I suppose I should be happy with that; it's certainly better than the bite it gave me the first time I touched it in London. But waking up in that cavern, laying across April's lap while she slept, her one hand on my hair, the other on my shoulder, I have to admit it was a little disconcerting to have that bronze bit of fancy resting up against my cheek, purring like a tabby cat on a sunny windowsill; even the sensation of soft vibration was there. 

Somehow I got the feeling that, while I'd been unaware, there had been some dramatic shift in the balance of things, and I have to admit that, while I was bloody grateful it hadn't been in the opposite direction, (purring certainly being better than hissing and biting), still it left me puzzled and more than a little unsettled.

It had purred at me. And sounded just like old Myrtle, my mother's big tabby cat we'd had for years and years when I was just a boy; one that used to like to curl up next to me on the couch while I read or took a nap or just daydreamed. That had to mean SOMETHING, though I was understandably reluctant to bring up the subject with April. Well, how was I supposed to, without sounding like a total lunatic?

So I left the matter undiscussed, and decided to place it in the back of my mind, to be dealt with later, when there was more time, more freedom, and perhaps a great deal of wine, or something stronger, involved.

Still, laying there in the darkness, April breathing quietly beside me, I found myself squinting, trying to catch a glimpse of the thing in the dim light from the living room lamp we'd left on. (Oh, don't get the wrong idea; we were sleeping together, yes, for comfort, but we weren't SLEEPING together, if you know what I mean. We're partners, April and me, but that only goes so far.)

One glint, then another and another, and while I could barely see April's outline, the bracelet was becoming more and more clear to my troubled eyes. 

A little reluctantly, hesitantly, wondering if I'd misread the situation, I'd reached out carefully, resting just one finger on that bracelet, above the charm that depicted a young woman, grace and strength and intelligence well-mixed with good-natured warmth, all so evident, no matter how illogical that should be, considering the whole charm was perhaps a little more than centimeter in length, if that. But still, the impression was a strong one, that only increased when the smile on the woman's face seemed to widen in welcome. 

And I found myself smiling in return, brought my hand back to my side, and slept.

 

Personal Epilogues - Illya Kuryakin

How do you look at the situation we find ourselves in and find yourself focusing on the thin ray of a silver lining? Perhaps because focusing on the situation itself is unprofitable; only time will tell if the safeguards that have been put in place are working.

However, that thin ray of a silver lining? Ah, that is more gratifying than I should perhaps admit. You see, Napoleon seems to have developed a distaste for the spider, the viper, he has so long been enthralled with. I mean, of course, Angelique, Thrush agent and seductress extraordinaire. How he has allowed himself to be her willing plaything for so long, I never will understand, and will always be grateful if that servitude is finally at an end. If nothing else, (and there is much else), I anticipate spending much less time in Medical.

From what I learned, listening to his muttered words as he slept beside me, April's bracelet has played a strong part, giving him perhaps an ability to finally glimpse what lies beneath that smiling, alluring exterior. No, I do not believe Angelique is one of the creatures; nor do I see in her the embodiment of Kali, or a physical spider or cobra or the rotting corpse he described. But I do believe all of those descriptions have some merit in describing her innermost being, her intentions, what she is capable of. At least I have always seen her so, although I will admit my reasons are not unmixed.

But after we returned from Cooperstown, there in Napoleon's apartment, after Mark and April departed, I lay on Napoleon's couch and listened as his breathing began to become labored, and as he tore himself from his bed to purge himself of all he had eaten and drunk that evening. And later, as I lay in the bed next to him, held him against the return of the nightmares, I found myself snarling into the darkness, defying Angelique to try again, because this time, this time surely, had been the last. Perhaps now, perhaps now . . . No, I will not voice my hopes even to myself, not yet. Perhaps in time.

 

Personal Epilogues - Gideon Cooper, Grandson of Nehemiah Cooper

You might wonder at my adding to this tale, having expired at the hands, or what serves them as such, of the creatures that now inhabit my home. Well, who better? For wasn't it my own eye that spied the dust-covered leather journal that once belonged to my grandfather Nehemiah Cooper and brought it out into the light? That sought to reveal the danger to those of the outside world before they too were taken unawares?

Oh, that one of us would have found this long ago, so that the evil might have been crushed in the womb, rather than being allowed to grow to full term and launch itself into our midst. 

But no, it lay in secret until my discovery, and you can only imagine my horror at the reading of his words. Yet horror was well-mixed with understanding, for now all that I had seen during my time on this earth began to become clear, and my duty shone before me like a great beacon.

Yes, my language might perhaps puzzle you, for it is most likely couched in a form not generally used anymore. At least, that seems to be what I have observed when outsiders come here. For the short time before they depart, in one manner or another. But we have been isolated here for so long, you see; the old ways hold hard.

My own grandfather was, while not the first, still among those taken and transformed in the first score of years. Somehow, while the transformation was whole and hearty in the others, in my grandfather, at least for a time, it was as if the Octera, as he called it, ruled him only partially, seemed to sleep for some hours each day, and during those hours, my grandfather frantically penned this journal. For each day, the number of hours the creature slept became less, even as my grandfather himself, his mind, his body grew weaker, and he knew the time he had to reveal all was drawing to a close. Grandfather opined that the creature itself was perhaps too young, was perhaps somehow defective, that the joining was not sound and complete as it appeared to be with the others. Yet, no matter, it was enough to prevent him from rebelling any farther than in the penning of this journal, this tale of our damnation.

I will not relate the efforts it took to get the word to one I thought could help; sufficient to say, they were not slight, nor without cost, and I am still amazed that they were successful. After all, while I cannot be certain, I do think I am perhaps the last of the villagers yet without a rider of my own.

Alexander Waverly and I had fought side by side in battle during what was not what had so mistakenly been termed 'The War To End All Wars', but the one after that, fighting another monster, the one in Berlin. I could trust him, at least as much as I could trust anyone, and from what I knew of his life after the war, this would not be a battle he would turn away from.

Much to my disappointment, I did not survive in time to turn over the journal to the men he sent to retrieve it; yet, in what must have been a fearsome enterprise, they and two of their associates DID locate and escape with the journal. Perhaps what they learned here, along with what the journal will reveal, will enable them to stop the plans of the Octera, for the tentacled ones make no secret that they have no intention of limited themselves to this small territory. I can only hope and pray Alexander and his people will prevail. The battle is now in other hands.

**Author's Note:**

> Note: I haven't read Lovecraft since my much younger days, his stories being fascinating for me at the time, but not conducive to a sound night's sleep. But if I were to call this story, delivered unbidden by my muse, anything, it would have to be 'Lovecraftian' in tone and material. I have tried to defuse the shrill xenophobia that such stories tended to pulsate with, or at least moderate it somewhat. Of course, other than casting away the story in its entirety, that was not possible, since I simply could not see our protagonists turning into cuddly puppies filled with warmth and good wishes. And I try not to offend my muse by refusing the stories she brings me, although there are some few that will remain in my own journals and never see the light. Call it editorial privilege, if you will. Read, if you wish; enjoy, if you can; and be sure to keep a night light on.


End file.
